


Lambing Season

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Clueless Sherlock, First Time, Gen, Kidlock, Last Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 23:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1406233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An Easter Story, in a horrible sort of way. A character study. Sherlock and Mycroft and sex and adulthood and childhood and not understanding and understanding too much, but not enough. An episode in things happening around Sherlock that are really out of the full comprehension of a willful eleven-year-old. Mycroft and first love--tragic or not, depending.</p><p>There's some graphic butchering of chickens in this. Some Church of England low theology, though not a lot. Tons and tons of paschal lamb imagery. Things die. People survive. IMO Father Holmes did the right thing--but I'm not sure that even years later Mycroft would agree. First love sucks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lambing Season

 

It was almost certainly, Sherlock later concluded, a season of firsts for all of them. Professor Torson’s first affair. Mycroft’s first infatuation. Sherlock’s first…what? It seemed hardly correct to call it spying, or peeping Tom behavior. It was an accident, after all…what he saw he had not meant to see.

He had missed Mycroft so desperately after his older brother went to Oxford—went early, at that, before he’d even passed seventeen years of age, leaving Sherlock, at ten, alone in ways he’d never even imagined in all the years before. Until then there had always been Mycroft—hateful, wonderful, brilliant, stupid, dominating, nurturing Mycroft, who framed Sherlock’s understanding of absolutely everything. The months Mycroft had been away had limped and stumbled past covered in bruises and spit-balls and resentments and regrets and insults, time itself bearing the brunt of Sherlock’s sufferings. Then Christmas had come—and gone, without Mycroft there to torture and tease. No—Mycroft had stayed up at Balliol for the hols, “studying.”

And then, at last, Easter arrived. Springtime and daffodils and swallows on the wing, and Mycroft was coming home. Mummy insisted on “keeping a sense of order” about it, as Sherlock went racing around the house, frantic with the thrill. He’d turned eleven, by then. Mycroft was not yet eighteen, though he soon would be—mere days after Easter came and went. Mummy and Sherlock argued together over plans for the two feasts, the Easter feast and the birthday feast.

The family was C of E. Sherlock couldn’t decide how seriously they took it, though—not any of them. Yet Father prayed daily, and Mummy sang in the choir, and Mycroft had once sat him down with the poetry of T.S. Eliot and talked quietly about faith, and about faith of intellect. Regardless of the uncertainties, though, his parents were of a generation that still believed in attending, and taking part in the cycles of the church year. One _did_ —that was enough.

Thus lamb was planned, with mint sauce made from spearmint picked in the back garden and cider vinegar. Peas and lettuce, of course. Deviled eggs to use up the dyed Easter eggs that were now no longer searched for, but displayed in a cut glass bowl on the table on Easter morning. The family would play the egg game, and make wishes as they knocked their eggs together like conkers, waiting to see whose egg cracked first.

And then would come Mycroft’s birthday, with roast chicken and stuffing and gravy—Mike’s favorite—and sliced beets on the side as Mike’s vegetable favorite, fresh marrows sauted in butter, would not be available until summertime, and a dense chocolate cake cloaked with chocolate ganache.

“And Mikey is bringing a friend,” Mummy said, as she planned amounts and discussed menus with Sherlock. It was the first Sherlock had heard of it.

“Mike doesn’t make friends,” he scoffed. It was true—Mike had never made friends in school, though he’d also never made enemies the way Sherlock did. “What, has he found some dweeb like him to drag home  and show off?”

Mummy couldn’t quite hold back a snigger—she was easy prey to Sherlock’s rowdy, caustic humor, though she scolded him for saying half of what he said, and herself for laughing at it. “Be nice, Sherlock. Mikey’s apparently hit it off with one of the dons, if you’ll believe it. It looks like he was just waiting for people old enough to appreciate him.”

“Creepy,” Sherlock said.

Mummy frowned. “That’s not fair, Sherlock. Some people really do just do better with adults than with other children. Your father’s ‘best friend’ growing up was the vicar at the time. Apparently a very nice man—smart and gentle and good with your father’s fancies. I know I was closer to my Aunt Vi than I was to most of my friends growing up. Mike’s probably just finally hit his stride.”

Only he hadn’t. Sherlock was sure of it within minutes of Mike arriving home with his “friend.” The man was revolting—tall and strongly built, reserved, with a charismatic smile and hair growing elegantly grey at the temples. He arrived wearing a tweed jacket with idiotic elbow patches obviously added for fashion not utility. He was jovial and old enough to be Mike’s father—indeed, he got on better with Mummy and Father than with Mike, to Sherlock’s eyes. And he was…

Wrong. There was something wrong with him. Sherlock didn’t know what—he was still trying to master the deductive skill Mycroft had invented when Sherlock was only a baby. But the man didn’t act like a friend, to Sherlock’s boyish eyes. He was hearty, and he ruffled Mike’s carrot-orange hair, and put his arm around Mike’s slim shoulders, and he hung on Mike’s words almost as much as Mike hung on his. But he wasn’t a friend.

His name was Anders—Anders Torson. His father was Norwegian, though Torson was English and had grown up in the country.

“You’re Mike’s tutor, then,” Sherlock asked, aggressively, trying to reestablish the lines of social arrangement he (barely) understood.

“No,” the man said, firmly. “Not even the same college, and a different specialty entirely. I’m Christ Church. Physics.”

“Hmph.” Sherlock glowered at him. “What do you find to talk about, then? Mike’s language and social science and game theory, mostly. History, a bit. Mushy stuff, except the game theory gets into some maths.”

“Stars,” Torson said. “We talk about stars. And music. And poetry. And everything else. ‘Shoes and ships and ceiling wax.’”

“’Cabbages and kings,’” Mike chimed in, on cue, blue eyes fixed on the older man, shining with affection.

The man’s mouth quirked up, a flashing smile, and he tugged Mike’s forelock. “Clever lad,” he said, “Such a clever lad.”

Mike seemed to glow, even as he frowned. “I’m almost eighteen. Hardly a lad anymore.”

“My mistake,” Torson said; his apology held as much wry amusement as actual repentance, though.

“He reads Eliot, too,” Mike said.

“As do most people literate in modern English poetry,” Father Holmes said, softly. “It’s admirable—but not exactly exceptional.” He glanced politely at his son’s guest, but with some reserve. “No insult intended, Professor Torson. Mike’s always loved Eliot, and he tends to give extra points for knowing his work. Sometimes it seems only right to remind him that the founding definition of human worth isn’t the appreciation of ‘Four Quartets.’”

“Of course not,” Torson said. “After all, there’s Dickinson and Browning and Yeats to be considered, too.” He was, Sherlock thought, trying to joke, but Father didn’t seem to consider it particularly funny.

“Why do you like him?” Sherlock badgered Mike later, having found him in his bedroom changing for dinner. “He’s _old_.And stuffy. And creepy.”

“He’s my friend,” Mike said, as though the word alone explained everything. Then he said, “He knows things. He likes what I like. He talks to me.” Sherlock scowled at the intensity of his brother’s words, the stunned adoration implied in his inflection. “He gets my jokes. _No one_ gets my jokes… Anders does.”

“Your jokes aren’t funny, they’re lame,” Sherlock snapped. “And so’s your creepy friend. You can’t even make friends right.” He sniffed. “When I go to college I’ll have a gazillion friends.”

Mike looked at him, and to Sherlock’s fury his eyes were sympathetic, not hurt and defensive. “I hope you’re right, baby-boy.”

“And you can stop calling me that,” Sherlock growled, reacting reliably to the old tease. “I’m eleven, now.”

“Oooh, almost a teenager,” Mycroft said, and grinned. “Growing up fast. Next thing you’ll be shaving.”

Sherlock studied him…and realized with a start that Mycroft himself did now shave—not just the sometimes, haphazard shaving he’d attempted before going off to uni, but apparently regular daily attempts. Sherlock could see the change in skin texture where the razor passed daily, and the startling traces of bright cinnamon stubble along his jaw. It angered and shamed him. Mycroft had once again reached a landmark before Sherlock even dreamed of attempting it. The seven years between them, combined with Mycroft’s intelligence, made it seem sometimes there was a full generation between them: as though Mycroft were father or uncle, not brother…yet Sherlock didn’t need a father or uncle. He needed his Mike, his brother. _His_ brother, belonging to no one else, uniquely his own.

“That Torson’s a freak,” Sherlock said, with a final huff, and stomped away.

The two touched too much. Sherlock noticed it each day. In church, even, during the Easter service, they stood together, sharing a hymnal, both heads bent over one book as everyone sang “Now the Green Blade Rises.” Torson had the better voice: a rich whiskey baritone that made Mike’s tenor seem light and reedy in comparison, but it was impossible to miss the pleasure they took in their blending voices. Their shoulders brushed as they sang, and when they sat together.

When they walked back home, up the narrow path over the hill through the meadows, Torson put his arm over Mike’s shoulders. When he laughed at Mike’s jokes he threw his head back, showing the long line of his neck. Mike glanced over at the sight, entranced.

Sherlock could hear Mummy and Father talking behind him, in the strange, truncated code of the long-married.

“It’s good for him to have someone,” Mummy said.

 “Mmmm,” Father said, clearly unconvinced.

“We already decided we didn’t care if…”

“I don’t care. But there’s something…” Father’s voice seemed to shrug. “Maybe I’m just being stuffy. But…a professor.”

“Not one of his own professors, though.”

“No.”

“He’s not going to appeal to many boys his own age.”

“No.” He sighed. “And they do get on. It’s good to see Mike smile.”

“Good to see him laugh.”

No, Sherlock thought, furious with his parents. It wasn’t good. Torson was a creep. He wasn’t normal. He wasn’t an ordinary teacher. He didn’t like Mike an ordinary way. It was wrong. Torson couldn’t have their Mike…Sherlock’s Mike.

Sherlock raced past them up the path, intentionally crashing against the older man as he cut by, nearly knocking him over. The man staggered and tripped—but Mike reached out and grabbed his arm, pulling him safely upright again. The two leaned together, eyes suddenly locked, and Sherlock, who’d turned back to revel in his victory, instead suffered defeat as his brother was far too clearly reborn in his friend’s eyes and raised up by the miracle of his affection. It was too clear that Torson was Mike’s real Easter mystery…his birth, his rebirth, his resurrection and salvation.

Later Sherlock would be able to say what he could not as a young boy: that Torson was Mycroft’s first love—the love that broke through the thick shell of silence and childhood and difference.

Knock, knock, knock—crack!

“I wish for a telescope,” Sherlock said, when his egg cracked Father’s. He turned to Mike. “You next.” He held out his egg, pointed end foremost.

“I’ll win,” Mike said, calmly. “Mine’s not been tried, yet, and it’s got a heavy shell, I think. Yours will be weak from the last round.”

“Mine will win!” Sherlock said, waiting.

Knock-knock. Crack…

Sherlock frowned, the broken shell of his egg white and red in his hand. He sighed. “What do you wish for, Mike?”

Mike didn’t answer, just shrugged. He turned back to his breakfast, nibbling at a rasher of fatty bacon cooked to a turn, brittle as potato crisps. He didn’t look at Torson. Torson didn’t look at him.

“What do you wish for,” Sherlock said again, angry. Bad enough to lose, without the compensating reward of hearing Mike’s daft wishes.

Mike shrugged. “A motorbike,” he said, as though snatching at anything. “A Vespa. It would be useful in Oxford. Make it easy to get around.”

“Booooooring,” Sherlock moaned, though in truth he was more than a little charmed at the notion. A motorbike—how cool was that?!

“You’d have to be careful,” Torson said, voice sober and worried. “So many of our boys die on motorbikes. They’re not really safe.”

“You’re not Mike’s Mummy,” Sherlock huffed, annoyed in too many ways to count.

“He’s right, though,” Mummy said, both trying to make peace and score a point against the imagined Vespa and the son dead on the side of the road. “They’re not safe.”

“I’m careful,” Mike sighed—and even Sherlock had to concede that Mike was.

“We’ll talk about it later,” Father said, then turned the subject to Torson’s physics specialty—a subject too far beyond anyone but Mummy to make bickering easy. It was all Sherlock could do to track the rough shape of Torson’s monologue and comprehend the broad implications of his work. That didn’t endear him to Sherlock in the least, though Mike’s eyes shone with admiration and awe. So few people could truly surpass Mike’s understanding of things. Maybe by the time Mike was Torson’s age he’d have mastered physics, too…but for now, for at least this brief window of time, Torson could shine in Mike’s eyes, brilliant in ways Mike couldn’t instantly pick apart and master on his own.

The lamb at dinner that evening was delicious. Father said grace over it. Sherlock pondered, trying to work out if Father believed, or if he merely did what Was Done. Mike said tradition mattered: that it was the web and weave of life, holding everything together. Mike liked afternoon teas and gymkhanas and local harvest festivals and bowling on the green and cricket matches and tennis whites and on and on: he seemed to wrap it all around him and purr, content in the minutia of English Habit.

Father prayed: he mentioned Abraham and Isaac, and the sacrifice of the paschal lamb, and the destruction of the young for the sake of the old, and he asked that his house be passed over this Eastertide. Mike winced and scowled and Torson stared bleakly at his plate. Conversation was stilted, and everyone went to bed early that night.

The next two days Mike and Torson rose up early and headed out on foot, walking the countryside alone. Sherlock begged to go along, with every intention of ruining the day for them if he could, but Mummy ordered him back, and he spent the same time roaming on his own with Red Beard, finding frog spawn in the marsh and blackbirds’ nests in the hedgerows. Spring was well along, and the fields were filled with calves and foals and lambs, all mad with life and racing over the tender green.

Mummy took Sherlock with her to get the chicken for Mycroft’s birthday. They drove out to the Home Farm, and Mummy asked for two capons, fat and heavy—enough for three adults and two growing boys, with at least a hope of leftovers for chicken sandwiches the next day at lunch. The farmer grabbed up two birds by the feet, and with a whack had their heads off before Sherlock could say a word. He dropped the bodies, and Sherlock screamed with laughter as they scrambled, headless and spewing blood, on the courtyard of the farm. When they’d bled themselves dry he plucked them and lopped their feet off, giving the clawed talons to Sherlock, who played with them in complete fascination, tugging the tendons and opening and closing the claws.*

Mummy brought the chickens home and hung them in the pantry to go through _rigor_ _mortis_ and continue dripping the last of their blood out into an old enamel basin. In the meantime she started work on Mycroft’s cake, to make sure it was ready for the next day. Then she chopped the onions and celery for the stuffing, and tore the bread and rubbed the fresh sage. She simmered the beets and then peeled them and put them in a casserole with bits of butter sliced over them, to be heated before the meal was served.

Sherlock had bought Mike a set of jeweler’s tools, dainty and fine as if made for fairies, amazing in their delicacy. A watchmaker had shown them to him, when he went with his father to get Father’s pocket watch cleaned and adjusted. He’d known immediately that they were perfect for Mycroft, who loved fine tools and elegant craftsmanship. He’d wrapped them sloppily, with a good deal of grumbling, as he didn’t see the point of the packaging—but he had submitted. The little case was hidden in a layer of flowered paper, with a white ribbon tied on with a crooked bow.

That afternoon before dinner Father went for a walk with Torson. They moved slowly together over the hills, hands in their pockets, heads down, talking. Sherlock tried to join them, but Father sent him home to help Mummy with dinner…a simple dinner of leftover lamb curry. “Not particularly authentic,” Mummy said. “Swedes and carrots and onion and curry powder and leftover gravy. But still, good over rice and a nice way to use up the lamb.”

When dinner was done, Torson said he’d be leaving after the birthday party the next night—that he’d been called back to Oxford for “family reasons.” He’d stay for Mike’s party, though. Mike tried to take it calmly, like the man he wanted to be. He almost succeeded.

The next day Torson and Mike went walking again, and this time Sherlock managed to slip past Mummy, Red Beard at his heels, and follow along, hiding from sight for fear he’d be noticed and sent back to fuss with chickens and stuffing and set the table with the best linen and china, just as he had for Easter.

They walked up the hills together, Torson’s arm over Mike’s shoulder. Seen from behind, their backs were stiff and upright. When they came to the spinney overlooking the Home Farm, Mike drew Torson into the shadow of the trees, and clung to him. His face turned up, and even Sherlock, at eleven, could see the longing for a kiss…

What followed upset Sherlock, but he couldn’t look away—couldn’t make himself close his eyes, or pretend it out of existence. It survived, decades later, cased in emotional ice, frozen in the dark recesses of Sherlock’s Mind Palace, a memory that preceded the Palace and which was, though Sherlock would deny it, one of the cornerstones on which the Palace was built. It was not processed. It was not willingly recalled to mind. It simply existed, a mute dumb show: love and learning and loss in a single brief act. When it was done Torson kissed Sherlock’s brother on the head and walked away back down the path, passing by Sherlock, who nested hidden in the hedge, dog clutched close. As he walked past he drew something out of his pocket, and slipped it on one finger. Gold flashed, and then he was gone.

Mycroft remained alone in the spinney, bent over himself, knotted tight with grief.

Dinner was uneasy, though Mummy had done a beautiful job on everything. The capons were brown and crispy-skinned and glistering in the light of the candles lit in Mike’s honor. The stuffing was the perfect balance of bland, sweet bread and onion, and savory sage and celery. There was gravy to spare. The beets, delicious, bled crimson into everything and turned Mike’s lips a savage red. Sherlock’s brother talked too fast, laughed too hard, drank wine like a man and ripped paper off packages like a child.

He thanked Sherlock for the jeweler’s tools, and tucked them into his trouser pocket, though he had no real need of them and was more likely to keep them in his desk drawer in the end.

He took the book of T.S. Eliot poems from Torson with grave thanks. He didn’t look inside. Sherlock did.

_To my dear Mycroft—“It is obvious we can never explain a passion to a person who has never experienced it than we can explain light to the blind.” You have been my passion, and my light. From here on, I shall return to measuring my life in coffee spoons—but you, my dear, should know you were loved. Anders Torson_

The professor left after dinner. Mike stood in the drive and waved him off, then returned for cake and ice cream.

That night he threw up capon and cake all night long. He spent the rest of the vacation tucked up on bed rest, with Mummy bringing him toast and soft-cooked eggs and cups of weak tea.

Sherlock never forgot any of it.

Years later he looked Torson up. The man had returned to a mild, ordinary wife. He’d had two children over the years—a boy and a girl. He’d had at least two more affairs with earnest young men of Oxford. None had ended happily. His wife had predeceased him. His final affair had ended when his partner had been diagnosed with AIDS. Torson had died later of the same disease, alone in a clinic in Swansea. It was soon after that Sherlock first noted the flash of gold on Mycroft’s right hand ring-finger.

He did not want to know. He never had wanted to know—that his brother had wanted the things that happened in the spinney. That he’d cried out in joy and grief and need. That the unruly, grotesque passions acted out were merely human, graciously human. Sherlock didn’t want to know.

And so it was that Sherlock himself measured his life out in coffee spoons, and lay anesthetized to the Lorelie’s song, and the golden ring, and the slaughtered lamb and the capons racing in the courtyard.

Until, at last, he awoke, and understood, and made a vow—and learned, in time, what it was to pray for Easter’s resurrection and renewal.

* You probably have to have grown up “country” to know this is all not just grotesque, but real. Maybe even grown up “country” in a different era. That said, I think Sherlock would have found the butchering of chickens quite fascinating, and would have happily played with their feet afterward.


End file.
